


Quietus: A Debt Settled [SCP fanfic]

by commedios



Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: Blood and Injury, Death, Gen, i mean its in the title
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25444096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commedios/pseuds/commedios
Summary: The SCP Foundation: a shadowy international organization collaborating with governments to pull strings here and there where the… anomalous is concerned. Y/N is a novice researcher determined to rise up the ranks within the Foundation. Along the way, they are assigned from one SCP to the next, studying and experimenting on them. After all, they’re monsters and it’s not like they can feel anything, right? In a job where humans can be more cruel and inhumane than the creatures they’re meant to contain, Researcher Y/N decides to make amends, during a breach, no less. Some debts are long overdue, and in the world of the Foundation, no good deed goes unpaid.
Relationships: everything's platonic babes!
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	1. Glad I'm Not Dead (Yet)

**Author's Note:**

> *Yes it's self insert but I dunno how to tag it because it's not ship-related

Taking another sip of my room-temperature coffee, I struggled to keep my eyes open. Now, _boring_ and _working for a secret organization_ hardly seemed to go together but finishing up some paperwork—that should’ve been done days ago if it wasn’t for procrastination—was possibly the least exciting but safest part of a job as a researcher in the Foundation. I was just waiting for my night shift to end and then I could finally succumb to sweet slumber. Caught up in my own thoughts, I was startled by a knocking at the office door that made me bolt upright and almost knock the coffee, already perched precariously on the edge, off my desk.

“Ah, shi– Hello, Doctor Jones,” I said, scrambling to grab the thermos flask before it fell and made a big mess _and then I’d have to stay back to clean it up instead of going home and f–_ Thinking about having to stay back in this place any longer than I had to jolted me awake even better than the caffeine.

Dr Jones stood there waiting for me to grab the flask and push it aside before speaking; equal parts polite and awkward, such is typical for the forced bureaucracy of the staff. “I was just checking in. You can clock out now, and go get some rest. I’ll take over the rest of your shift. It’ll be bad if you fall asleep while on the job, you know,” he said, chuckling at the last part. It wasn’t that funny but I suppose in a job where you’re guaranteed to watch your coworkers die painful deaths, you learn to find something to laugh about, even at the slightest things.

Not wanting to kill what little joy he could show, I gave a small smile too. “Uh, yeah, thanks a lot, Doctor Jones. I really appreciate it. Uh, and you get some rest too after your shift,” unsure of what else to say, I just echoed whatever he said. _Well, that was awkward. Doesn’t matter, I’m just here to do my job. No more, no less_ , I thought. Trying to conceal my happiness at being allowed to leave, I gathered my things and made my way to the door at what I hoped seemed like a normal pace.

Just when I was turning the handle to sprint out of there after what felt like eternity of paperwork, Dr Jones cleared his throat. “Oh, and happy almost-one-year anniversary of working for the Foundation, Researcher Y/N,” he said. One year didn’t seem like much; as a newcomer I thought it was odd the people here would make such a big deal of it. How naive I was, I almost wanted to go back in time and punch my younger self for thinking any of this was going to be a good idea. Still, it was something to be proud of, being alive. Not everyone can say they’ve been working for a secret organization and still be, well, alive. _Just ask… Scranton or– or Hamm_ , I thought, almost hesitant to think of their names, as if it would curse me to a fate just like theirs.

But they weren't just names on a page were they? They were living and breathing and had families waiting for them at home. Hell, Dr Hamm was just about to resign to spend more time with his family and Dr Scantron, I sometimes saw his wife working here. I felt a chill run down my spine like every part of me I thought was mine had been replaced by some animal instinct and I was controlled by nothing more than a primal fear. Is this how they all felt like joining here, knowing they'd meet the same end as countless others before them?

_Nevermind that, you’ve been working here for too long to be scared of what? Your own thoughts? There are worse things to fear here_ , I tried to reason with myself. I opened the door and was greeted by an empty hallway. It looked deceptively normal and, for the most part, it was. But if you didn’t know the place well it was easy to get lost in the labyrinthine corridors. Even if someone got lost, the doors between containment and the rest of the facility would serve as protection. Inches and inches of metal and an electric field were the only things between us—between the rest of the world—and certain death, or something much worse.

I stepped out into the corridor. It seemed to stretch on for too long. _Reminded me of a skip, I think it was dash-three-ninety-eight. It beckoned people to walk further down, luring them and– we never found out what happened to them_. The lights that they kept on at all times for security reasons seemed too bright. Things that were previously just headache-inducing seemed to turn into something sinister now. The whitewashed walls were never allowed to be dirty. They could paint over it as much as they wanted but we all there had been blood on these walls. Every breach, every _incident_ had left its mark on the architecture. It wasn't so much of a real stain, but working for the Foundation teaches one that most things we have to fear aren't things that abide by reality. In my memory, the red—congealing into an almost black dense mass—was still fresh and it got into everything: walls, clothes, hair. Felt like just yesterday. Felt like a thousand years ago.

Being on the site was stifling. The sleep deprivation probably made it worse. I was reminded of those catacombs in France. I always wondered how it felt, to be so close to death. I didn't want to wonder anymore, didn't have to.

It was a dizzying walk through the corridors back aboveground to the building’s exit. The whole trip from out of the facility to the drive back home seemed like nothing more than a reflex. It was mere routine at this point. Still, a small part of me, the part that was still feeling and human and not just Foundation worker, felt grateful that I at least got to return home tonight.


	2. Liar, Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: pretty graphic injury mention in this chapt.

“There’s our next assignment, SCP-022. We are to conduct an interview on a dash-one instance,” Jones handed me a file. I glanced at the door of the morgue. I can't believe we had flown all the way to the UK for this. Of all places. And we had to interview an angry, reanimated corpse. _I get it, I’d be angry if I suddenly died_ , I mused to myself while reading past interview logs, _but acting out would only make the whole thing harder._ I corrected myself, _I can’t empathise too much with these things. Don’t get too attached, you’re just here to interview it_. It felt wrong; to sit around interrogating 022-1 while knowing it was going to be killed immediately after. Not killed, terminated. At least that’s the word the Foundation makes us use. It makes death seem almost professional. 

The team, consisting of myself, Dr Jones, and a handful of agents, had been flown in soon after we were told of this assignment. Everything happened too fast for me to worry about it but now, just moments away from conducting an interview, I was beginning to feel a bit apprehensive. I tried to maintain the indifferent composure that most of my coworkers held. _Remember, it’s not human, regardless of what it says_ , all of us staff had been briefed on handling humanoid anomalies before going out in the field. It would be fine.

“SCP-022-1 has been physically restrained, Doctor. Please enter the containment facility.” An agent pointed to the holding cell built next to the morgue. Jones led the way and I followed after him. He’d been working for the Foundation longer than I had but he still managed to retain most of his… humanity. The job required us to discard what little semblance of feeling we had left. If we didn’t, the constant experimentation on skips and D-class would wear us down eventually. By Foundation standards, Jones was considered too kind for his own good. We’d all heard the stories of what happened to staff that got too attached. They tried to be nice to some skip but— _what did you expect from animals, really_ —it… backfired. Then the Foundation would have to make up some sorry excuse to the person’s next-of-kin, saying their child, spouse, or sibling died from some “workplace accident”. So much for occupational hazards.

Upon hearing the door open, 022-1 looked up to see Jones and I enter the room. It was a young woman. Or what remained of one. Her- Its skin seemed like one large wound, bloated and swollen. Everything was decayed, skin was the only thing holding what was mostly rotting tissue together to form something that looked barely human. It’s wrists were cuffed to the table and there were gashes where the restraints dug into its skin. I was surprised this one could even go through with the interview. The stench of decay permeated the entire room. It reminded me of something I overheard from another researcher, “Humanoid skips were the worst, they seemed so human that it was hard not to treat them like they were.”

It only got worse when the thing spoke up. “Do you know where I am? Where’s my mum? Please, where is she?” Its tone got louder, more insistent, until it was almost a shriek. 

Dr Jones and I took a seat opposite it. _Mum?_ That was an unusual thing for an adult to ask. We looked at each other questioningly before he spoke up, “Please state your name and age.”

“Beth… Beth Harris. I’m twelve years old,” she said hesitantly, not seeming to notice the wounds or the fact that its age didn’t match its changed body. 

“Beth, do you know how you got here?” Jones asked tentatively, softening his tone. We both knew we weren’t allowed to address anomalies by a given name. I didn’t mind, but I just hoped the Foundation wouldn’t either. 

“Well, all I remember is that I was on my way home from school, walking, and I saw some man following me so I walked faster and– after that, I don’t really remember,” the girl looked down at the wooden table—non-reflective so the skips couldn’t see themselves, not after the previous incidents—and traced the swirls of wood grain. 

I looked at Jones, wordlessly asking to speak. He nodded. “Do you remember when that happened, Beth?” I didn’t want to push it any further but she was the only one to be this cooperative.

“...It was in the afternoon, on a Tuesday,” her voice was barely audible and she struggled to get the words out.

“Thank you. If you’d just sit there and wait for a while, your mother will be here soon,” I lied through my teeth. Beth seemed to cheer up when she heard this. She gave a mangled smile. I grimaced, trying to make it look like a grin. Jones and I, our job done, stood up and walked out of the room. 

As soon as the on-site response team saw us exit the room, they stormed in with guns raised and ready. My chest tightened. I wondered if this was going to be one of the cases I’d stay up late thinking about for the rest of my life. _The Foundation better pay us back in anmestics when– if we retire from this shit._

I turned to Jones, “The news reported a twelve year-old girl named Beth Harris missing two weeks ago. She was last seen walking home from school.” We both knew we couldn’t tell the local authorities, just like how we knew we couldn’t tell Beth her mother wasn’t actually coming.

  
The two of us walked up from the basement briskly without speaking a word. Neither of us could bear to stay and hear the gunshots. _She was dead already, there was nothing we could have done for her_ , I wished I was lying through my teeth. We exited the building and the daylight felt like a cruel joke after the time spent in the dim basement.


End file.
